Where do I begin? I grew up in a neighborhood that looked nice. It looked like a park. The houses were on acre lots and fairly well maintained. However, the people were sketch. In the back of my head I always worried about drugs, break-ins and someone knocking on my window at night. I trusted no one and had no reason to. A few of my neighbor’s houses had been broken into and ransacked, one house got busted for growing a copious amount of weed and… I wasn’t allowed in my backyard because the neighbor boys were doing drugs in the trees on the edge of the next lot over. (I think those same high boys would come knock on my window at night just to freak me out.)

It was weird. Nothing crazy. But this place was supposed to be better than where we lived in Florida. (We also lived in a sketchy neighborhood there. The neighbor got stabbed at his own party and came knocking on our door for help. Cops would chase people down our street daily. And I distinctly remember the neighbors domestics – I was 4 when we moved.)